Last Chance Creek
by seditionary
Summary: A series of murders in Montana brings the BAU team to investigate. Hotch and Reid are off to interview a potential witness, but when flash floods strand them on the mountain, a murdered rancher's tent is their only shelter for the night. H/R slash!


**A/N: This was written for a prompt at the IKY'dU Blog - Hotch/Reid Writing Challenge: Round 4**

**That challenge is already over, but I wanted to write this, anyway! Not very original, but I was in such a Brokeback Mountain mood... Also, I don't usually write in the first person, so this was a personal challenge for me.**

**Prompt: Montana - cowboy hat - bar fight - tent**

**Summary: The BAU team is investigating a series of murders in eastern Montana. Special Agent Spencer Reid and his supervisor, Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, go into a small town that appears to be at the heart of the crime spree. After running into some trouble at a local bar, they head off to interview a potential witness. ****Reid narrates the story.**

**Warnings: Contains SLASH, language, sex.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one from Criminal Minds and no money is made from this. It'****s just for fun.**

* * *

A dusty mountain road in eastern Montana. Me at the wheel of the SUV, my boss, Aaron "Hotch" Hotchner, asleep in the passenger seat. He's slumped to the side with his head resting against the window, and seeing him like that makes me smile. I'm amazed, the man who's always in control is actually letting me drive for a change. I assume that my argument about his swollen black eye causing a decrease in his depth perception and peripheral vision convinced him, because when I took the keys out of his hand, he didn't argue.

Marc Bolan's on the radio, telling me he wants to be my Twentieth-Century Boy. A sexy thought, except for the fact that he died in the late seventies. Car accident, something he'd always feared, the reason he, himself, didn't drive. Guess it didn't occur to him that he might have been better off putting faith in his own paranoia, instead of counting on other people to pay attention.

Maybe that's why Hotch is such a control freak. I'm glad he trusts me enough to close his eyes.

* * *

I kind of wish that Hotch were awake, the scenery is beautiful. The sun is just beginning to set, the mountains are all around us, and the early spring colors are breathtaking. It's the kind of moment that could be called romantic, if you weren't on a case involving multiple homicides, and if the object of your affections weren't your decidedly heterosexual boss.

We're headed for Travis Mitchell's sheep ranch. Mitchell called in to local police yesterday morning-said he has some information about the ritualistic killings that have been happening in the area, but he's scared. Doesn't want to tell his story to the police, only to us. It's a weird case, there's a survivalist cult out there that might be responsible for the deaths, and it's got the small town of Parmer, Montana, on edge.

But, it's probably just as well that Hotch is getting some sleep, maybe his eye will feel better after a nap. That, and maybe he won't be so angry with me by the time he wakes up. I know he blames me for the bar fight, although, in truth, I really don't think it was my fault.

We're steadily climbing this elevation and the road appears to be deteriorating at an alarming pace. I'm beginning to wonder if we missed the turn, when I spot a small, hand-painted sign among a thatch of weeds. It says "Mitchell," with a shakily-drawn arrow pointing to the dirt road that jags off to the right. I put the car into four-wheel drive. It's rough going, the road has a steady concentration of dips and rises that are almost imperceptible until you're right on top of them. A particularly vicious one rattles the carriage of the SUV and causes Hotch's head to bounce back and forth against the window like a pinball.

"What the fuck-" He rouses and looks around with a dazed expression.

"Sorry. It appears that we've run out of paved road." I grin at him, hoping he's cheered up, not that that's a term I associate with Hotch, but, I think, maybe he's at least in a better mood than he was earlier. However, he merely grunts before demanding, "Where are we?"

"On our way to the Mitchell place. Or, so the sign would have us believe."

Hotch pulls out a piece of paper and reads it over. He glances around the uninhabited landscape and shakes his head. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"I'm following the directions we got back in town. How's your eye?"

Hotch shoots a look of irritation at me then turns his gaze back to the road. "It's fine. Is that a house?" A chimney peeks over the horizon, and I come upon a ramshackle gate that's hanging open. I turn in and follow what passes for a driveway up to an old cabin. I stop, we get out and are greeted by a friendly border collie mix that runs up to sniff us.

Hotch bangs on the door. "Travis Mitchell? FBI. Open up, please, we're here to speak with you." I stay close, my hand on my gun, but there's no sound, no movement. Hotch tries the door and it opens readily. We both draw our weapons and go in. We do a sweep, but it's all clear.

I note a half-eaten sandwich on the kitchen table. "Someone left in a hurry." The dog helps himself to it by standing on his hind legs and scarfing it down in one bite.

Hotch smiles slightly. "Hope that wasn't evidence."

We examine each room and find no signs of violence, but nothing to indicate Mr. Mitchell's whereabouts, either. We walk back outside. The only vehicle's an old rusty pickup truck on blocks. The dog dashes around and between us, then hurries ahead, seemingly intent on leading us further up the mountain. I glance at Hotch and he looks at me.

"He's trying to tell us something." Hotch takes a radio and a flashlight out of the car, and I do the same. A heavy line of clouds has developed off to the north, and as an afterthought, I grab our jackets from the back seat.

We begin walking, following the pooch. The terrain becomes rockier and I begin giving Hotch some figures on the incidents of snake bite in this part of the country, which he doesn't seem to be interested in. We trudge on for the better part of a mile, straight up and in a bit of a winding path, following a fence line. At one point, we have to navigate across a rickety hand-built bridge that takes us over a small creek. To the side of it are deep ridges where tires have made their way through a low-water crossing.

"Hotch." I point at a herd of sheep off to our right. The dog hastens to his charges and runs in circles around them, moving them into a pen with a shed, where they obediently gather together. I explain to Hotch that Border collies are quite intelligent and that they take their responsibilities as a shepherd very seriously, but he's not listening. He strides off to the left, then I hear him call, "Over here."

A tent is set up in a clearing just beyond a stand of trees. We draw our guns, and Hotch makes our presence known. Again, no response, nothing, but the dog begins to whine. We follow him downward, past the encampment. At the bottom of a gulley lies a battered cowboy hat. Hotch nods at me, letting me know that he's going to take a look and that I should stay behind to cover him. The dog moves ahead and from my vantage point, I see that he's found something. Hotch reaches him and I see him kneeling down.

"Reid! Down here." I glance around, making sure we aren't being observed, and make my way to Hotch.

Travis Mitchell's swollen body is on the ground, and the poor dog is gently pawing at it. The sight makes me sad. I come up beside Hotch and we split up to do a preliminary assessment of the area, before even taking a good look at the body.

Hotch finds blood spray a little higher up. "Apparently, he was killed over here." He paces off the trail leading back to the body. "He was shot, and managed to walk to here before collapsing."

I pull on a pair of gloves and begin examining the stinking body. He's been baking in the sun for a while, at least 24 hours. "Gunshot wound, confirmed. It's a through and through, lung shot, I'd say."

I notice that the wind's picked up and the temperature's dropped. Suddenly, a thunderclap cracks open the silence. We both start, and I feel my heart rate increase. After only a few seconds, we begin to be pelted by huge raindrops. We hastily pull on our jackets, and I notice Hotch is staring at the body.

"Damn it-we need to preserve the evidence. Go see if there's anything in the tent that we can cover him with. I'll call in for assistance."

I run back to camp and find a tarp folded inside the tent, and bring it back to the site. I fashion a make-shift covering, using some fallen tree limbs, and then stand up and stare at the sky. "Looks like we're in for some serious rain. Did you get anybody?"

Hotch shakes his head. "No one's answering. We may be out of range up here. It's getting dark. I'm going back for the car-you stay here with the body. Stay alert-the unsub may still be out here." He gives me a grim look, then starts walking down the trail. I look around for the dog and find him sitting next to the body. He tilts his head at me with what I take to be a worried expression.

"It's okay, boy. We'll find you a good home." I'm not much of a dog person, but this little guy seems very intelligent. I bend down and scratch behind his ears, then go to find cover. He follows, and we wedge ourselves under a slight overhang in the rock, where the rain isn't quite as punishing. Here, no one can surprise me from behind, and I can still keep watch over the body.

* * *

It's damned creepy, sitting here alone in the dark of the mountain range with a dead body. Even with a dog, a gun, and a flashlight, there's something lonely and dangerous about the air itself. The temperature keeps dropping, and now I'm shivering.

A good 45 minutes have passed, and I listen-for the sound of Hotch coming back with the vehicle, for a branch swishing or a twig cracking that would alert me to someone, maybe the unsub, approaching. But, all I hear is the rain, thunder and plaintive noises coming from the sheep down in their pen.

Suddenly, the dog raises his head and whines. He gets up and scurries out toward the trail. I pull my gun. I see a light coming toward me, and I hold my breath, waiting.

"Reid?"

I exhale. It's Hotch, on foot.

"Over here." I raise my flashlight and move to meet him. "Where's the car?"

Hotch makes his way to me. He's out of breath. "The bridge washed out, and the creek's turned into a river. It's impossible to cross. Looks like we're stuck here for a while."

"Did you get anyone on the radio?"

"No, no response. Even if I had, there's no way to get up here right now. We'd better just make the best of it."

"That tent looked pretty secure. Plus, I saw some snack food in there." My stomach's been growling for a while now, and I'm glad to see Hotch nod and turn toward the direction of Mitchell's camp.

* * *

We unzip the entry flap and crawl inside. The roof's not high enough to stand up in, but it's pretty roomy, and it's totally dry and secure. Mitchell obviously knew how to pick a camp site. We pull off our soaked jackets, and cast the light of our flashlights around. We find a battery-powered lantern and turn it on. We sit down and begin poking around. There's a cardboard box filled with sealed beef jerky, candy, and bottled water.

A feast.

We start on the jerky and chew in silence, listening to the rain hit the thin fabric of the tent and the occasional thunder clap. We start when we hear something outside the tent, but then we realize it's just the dog.

I open the flap and let him in. I find a towel and rub him down before he has a chance to shake himself off, then I open a piece of jerky and feed it to him.

"What... are you doing?" Hotch's voice is patiently exasperated.

"He's wet and cold, and the one person he had in this world is gone. Am I supposed to leave him out in the rain?"

"What about the sheep? Don't you want to go kiss them goodnight and tuck them in?"

"I think they're as tucked in as it's possible for a sheep to be. That's very caring of you, though." I grin at him and think I catch a slight smirk of amusement. That makes me happy. I like it when I can make him laugh, or at least smile a bit.

We get into the candy bars and I have to shield mine from the pooch. "No chocolate for you, buddy. Sorry." He sits back and watches until I finish, then sighs and lies down by the entry flap. After a few minutes, he gets up and begins pawing to be let out. I realize he wants to be with his herd, and let him go.

Hotch grins a little. "They grow up so fast."

I smile back, but can't think of anything funny to say. It's too quiet, so I try to come up with a conversation topic. I notice that Hotch is gingerly fingering his bruised cheek.

"I'm sorry about your eye."

Hotch gives me his, "I don't want to talk about this," look, but after a moment, he says, "It's okay. My own fault."

I bite my lip. "I didn't mean to make that guy angry. I was just trying to get information out of him."

"Reid-a guy like you in a town like this has to be careful. I would think you'd know that."

A guy like me. Somehow, being summed up in that way hurts.

"I... didn't think I was being overt. I was just talking to him."

Hotch is frowning, but there's a puzzled look in his eye. "Overt? What do you mean?"

"I didn't-do you think he thought I was flirting with him? Is that why he got so upset?"

Now, Hotch is actually looking concerned. "No, Reid-I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. What I meant was that an intelligent young man like you can sound like a bit of a know-it-all to these mountain-man types. Plus, we're obviously from the city, dressed nicely-they automatically take that as an implication that we think that we're better than they are. _That's_ what led to the confrontation."

"Oh." I nod. Suddenly, I feel a little better. "I see."

"Spencer." Hotch rubs a hand over his forehead. "Sometimes you have trouble picking up on social cues, we've discussed this before. I was trying to give you signals to back off, but you didn't. That's why I stepped in, and, obviously, I didn't time it very well, thus..." He points to his blackened eye.

"I guess all that was lost on me. I was never trained to deal with what you call the 'mountain-man type.'" I ponder the thought. "I think I'll do a paper on this. It would probably be a useful addendum to the BAU training curriculum."

Hotch actually laughs. "I agree. I wouldn't suggest doing any more field research, though. You might get hurt." I laugh too, and open a bottle of water. I offer one to Hotch and we quiet down, listening to the wind whip around us.

* * *

It's freaking cold, now. We've exhausted our small reserve of good-natured banter and are sitting quietly, both huddled into ourselves, shivering. Hotch shifts, he's staring at the front of the tent, not looking at me. I can tell he's about to say something, and I hope it's not about my homosexuality and how he's okay with it, et cetera, et cetera. I get that from Morgan every so often, and it's always awkward, except that, at least with him, I can turn it around and tell him that I'm pretty okay with having a jock for a friend, although I wish he would tone it down a little and try not to be so obvious about it when we're out in public, ha ha ha.

"Reid." Hotch's voice is different. Softer.

"Uh-huh?"

"Haley wants a divorce."

I look at him. He still won't look at me, but I can tell he's holding back a lot. "Oh, wow. I'm so sorry to hear that." I pick up a candy wrapper and fiddle with it, trying to smooth it out. I don't know how to respond. I don't know how he wants me to respond.

"It's hard, because of Jack. But... It's probably for the best."

We're silent for a while. The rain keeps coming. I hear Hotch sigh. His teeth chatter as he exhales.

I start looking for something to give him to wrap around himself, and find a sleeping bag rolled up behind us. I shake it out and drape it over his shoulders. He holds it out, indicates that I should move closer. I hesitate.

"Come on, you're cold, too."

I scoot next to him and pull a corner of the bag around myself. Our shoulders are touching. I feel exhaustion creep into my muscles, into my brain. "I think I'll stretch out for a little while, okay?"

"Fine. In fact, go to sleep. I'll keep watch for a couple of hours, then we can trade."

We scrabble around until we make ourselves as comfortable as possible, sharing the sleeping bag for warmth, while keeping a respectable amount of space between us.

Time passes slowly. I feel Hotch turn one way, then the other. The ground is hard and cold, and there's a rock pressing into my ribs. I wonder if I should give up and try to talk. I want to tell him that I'm sorry, really sorry, about Haley, but that he's right, it is for the best, I've been seeing it coming for a long time, and I think that he's going to come through this just fine.

And, I want to tell him that, yes, I'm gay, but I don't know what that means exactly, because I've spent so much time _not_ thinking about it, that I don't even know _how_ to think about it, and I'm scared, Hotch, I'm really scared, because a lot of things have happened to me, mostly because of this job, but it's really all I've got, and I don't know who I am anymore.

* * *

I doze off. I'm in that netherworld where I'm asleep, yet keenly aware of my surroundings, and I hear a noise, it's something odd, I don't recognize it, but it's close, and I come to consciousness and realize that Hotch is crying.

My brain's not registering this. Some things are impossible, and this was one of them, yet as I lie here, groggy, I have to acknowledge the fact-my stoic boss is quietly crying about three feet away from me.

"Hotch?"

"Go back to sleep." I hear him make a choked sound, like he's forcing back a sob.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He clears his throat and, except for a sniff, he's completely silent now.

I sit up and turn to him. He's avoiding my eyes and I move closer and put a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. You're a human being and you're going through hell. I understand that." I'm sitting close, and I pat him.

The wrong thing to do.

He pushes me away. "Drop it, Reid. I'm fine." Almost his normal voice, just a little strained.

I sigh. "Do you know what's going to happen? With Jack, and everything?"

"No. We haven't gotten that far. But, she says she wants him to spend as much time with me as possible." He swipes at his good eye and I hear him take a deep breath. "Which, with this job, won't be a lot."

I nod. "But, at least you'll be in his life. That's important. He'll know you love him and that you want to be with him. My dad never-" I stop. Hotch doesn't want to hear about my pathetic childhood hurts. I drop my hands into my lap and consider trying to go back to sleep. Suddenly, Hotch looks at me.

"What happened with your dad? I know he left, but..." He sounds genuinely interested.

"He just went away. I never heard a word from him, no letters, no phone calls, nothing. I thought... I thought it was my fault. That I wasn't the kind of son he wanted. I knew better, intellectually, but, inside... Children are completely ego-centric and they assume everything is about them. You can't convince them otherwise."

I feel Hotch's hand on my back. "I'm sorry."

I shrug. "It's fine. I'm an adult, I've learned to cope."

"You've been through a lot."

"Yeah, well-I try to look forward, not back."

Hotch smiles. "That's a good attitude. But-right now, I'm weighed down by all the 'what ifs', the regrets. When it affects your own child, it's difficult not to do that." He sighs. "And... I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, Spencer. You know... after Hankel."

I look at him. "You were. You were very supportive, you-"

"No. I was... your boss. I should have reached out, should have made more of an effort to be your friend. I could see that you were hurting, and I just turned away. I regret that."

"You have nothing to feel guilty about, it wasn't your place to help me. And, I'm fine. I... worked through it. I'm stronger. Morgan told me to use it, that it would make me a better agent, and it has. It wasn't easy, but-"

Hotch moves closer and squeezes my shoulder comfortingly. "You're stronger than I give you credit for. But, I am sorry. I wish I could have helped you."

The kindness, his voice, his touch. I'm feeling hot tears in my eyes, and I just want to wrap myself up in his arms, to be what he needs, but I pull away. It's too hard, I'm too fragile.

I don't want to want this.

He seems to realize I'm struggling. "Sorry, Reid. I didn't mean to bring up a painful subject."

"No, no, it's ok. It means a lot to me that you care. You-I really respect you, Hotch." What a stupid thing to say. _I love you_, _Hotch._

"And, I respect you, as well. You've been... such an asset to the team." He falters, and I think that maybe he didn't say what he meant to say, either.

"I do think of you as a friend." I can tell my voice sounds funny, but I keep right on blathering. "And, really-if you ever want to talk about anything-I'm here for you. Anytime. You know that, right?"

He smiles. "Yes. Thank you." He pulls me to him for a hug and I cling to him, just a fraction too long. His body is taut and solid and he smells like rain. I wish I could crawl into his embrace, cover myself up with it, live inside it...

I feel his lips brush across my forehead. I look up at him, he's giving me this intense stare, then it's gone. He pulls back, but I refuse to retreat. I'm on autopilot, I take his face in my hands and I press my lips to his. There's a moment, a tiny moment, where he presses back, then he recoils, yanks away from me as if my mouth were an electric current.

We don't speak. I can hear him breathing fast, just as I am, and I shift so that I'm above him, straddling his lap, and I kiss him again. I think he's going to shove me away, maybe even hit me, but after seconds tick by, he's pulling me down, and it's brutal-the fingers of one hand digging in behind my head, the others bruising the back of my neck.

His tongue's in my mouth.

I'm kissing him back, I'm touching him, I'm seducing him as awkwardly and hesitantly as someone who's never had a dick up his ass possibly can, then I reach down and unzip my pants. He grasps me around my hips with one hand and pulls my pants down with the other. I wiggle free of them, then

I go for his mouth again.

He pushes me off of him, and for a moment, I think we're done. But, he's making me lie on my back, he's rough, and I wish there were something under my back and head to cushion them from the solid earth. He scrabbles around until he's on top of me and his mouth is demanding-he's biting me, licking inside and out, hot, and I'm racked with need.

I try to position him so that his elbow's not stabbing into my abdomen, but I don't want to lose a millimeter of contact, and he gets the message. He stops and rests his head on my shoulder, his cheek against mine. I hear his breath and feel it on my skin, warm as he exhales. He lifts his head and kisses me again, more gently this time, and he's sending shockwaves straight from my lips to my groin.

I feel his erection against my leg.

He's making me shiver, my cock's hard, poking out from my underwear, and his hand wraps around it and squeezes. I want to tell him that we should stop, that we shouldn't do this because, well, because he's my boss and he's an honorable man, and he's going to feel terrible about it tomorrow, but I'm too low, too needy to say anything, and I just let his weight rest against me and I wrap my arms around him and I pull my legs apart and press my knees into his waist, and hope, hope, that he won't choose this moment to be honorable.

He pulls back for a moment and I hear his zipper come down. He rolls me over onto my stomach and I feel his cold hands tug my hips upward, then he finds the elastic of my underwear. It comes down, then off, and I spread my legs apart, not believing it, but I want it, more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.

His hands are on my ass. He's caressing me, exploring, then I feel a finger probing me, and he's hoarse when he asks, "Is this what you want?"

I feel a choking sob well in my throat, and I gasp, "Yes... yes." He puts his finger in his mouth and I feel it come back, wet, working into me, opening me up. I wince, it burns, but it feels like what I've been waiting for, needing, for a long, long time. He spits into his palm and I can tell he's slicking up his erection, and then he's pushing inside me, thick, hot, burning, and for a moment, it feels like my flesh is tearing, but he whispers, "Relax, Spencer. Let it happen," and I try to, I try to relax, but it's hard to relax when you're mind is exploding, and to my disgust, I realize I've made a pleading, whimpering noise.

He pulls out and buries his face in my neck. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. I shouldn't have-"

"I want you to." God, I want him to. "Please-try again. I'm okay. It'll be okay." I try to keep my voice steady, for him. He needs to know I'm okay or he won't do it. "It's good, Hotch. I need this." I need you. I need you.

I hike my rear end upward, nudging him, letting him know with my body that I'm not kidding, that I want this. He re-lubes, if you can call it that, and slides into me again. I take a deep breath, and force myself to let go, to let him in, and all the crazy sensations begin to blend together into some kind of pleasure, and he's thrusting in and out of me, faster and faster, and he's hitting that good place, only I'm too far gone to grasp that fact, and it just feels like heaven and I'm making noises I don't even remember ever having made before.

"Touch yourself," he gasps. My hand's shaking, but I find my cock and stroke. Hotch's cock is spearing me deep inside, over and over, he feels huge. It hurts and feels good at the same time, and it makes what I'm doing with my hand better, perfect. I'm blind, and my come shoots out onto the sleeping bag, and I wonder what the tiny Parmer forensics department will think about that.

I'm done, but, God, it goes on for a while. I begin to think I can't stand it, I'm raw, but I hear him grunt, an animalistic sound torn straight from his groin, and he spurts into me. I can feel his cock quiver, throbbing, and the clock stops. Finally, he pulls out, and it's a physical relief, but my brain's already mourning the loss.

He rolls off and stretches out on his back beside me. His cock's lying long and limp across his leg and I stare at it, amazed that that monster was just inside my body. We've heated the air of the tent, it's too close in here, but I lie down next to him anyway. I'm careful not to touch, hoping he'll break down and offer me a place under his arm, but he doesn't.

There's nothing to say. We just lie there, and the cold gradually creeps back in. Hotch sits up to pull on his pants and I do the same. He pulls the sleeping bag on top of us, and I sigh and turn onto my side, facing away from him.

I wonder if he's already sorry.

I feel him shift and then, he slips his arm around my waist and pulls me close. A few seconds later, he's breathing slowly and evenly, and it feels so good to be held, to have his heart beating inches away from mine. I close my eyes and smile. I'm warm, sated, and I nestle back into him, asleep before I know it.

* * *

I hear the dog barking in my dream. I think he's in the tent for a moment, then I realize I'm hearing someone walking. The rain's stopped and I sit up, I grab my gun. The battery on the lantern's given out, but sunrise has begun to creep in, giving a low illumination, and I see that I'm alone. The tent flap's open. Hotch is gone. His gun's still here.

I stick my head out. The dog comes running up, he wants me, so I crawl out and look around. I see Hotch several yards away. He's staring at something in the gully below. I approach, slowly, quietly. I see that his hands are raised and I hear him talking.

"You don't want to do this."

I drop down and cut a wide circle. From my new vantage point I see a man, he looks familiar and I remember having seen him at the bar. He's holding a gun on Hotch. My brain locks in on the scene. I'm calculating, I'm trained for this, and all emotion is removed as I size up the situation, the angle, the light, the possible responses from the unsub.

"Oh, yes I do. You people come up here from the government, you think you know better than us-you don't know our ways, you don't know what justice is!"

"Put the gun down. It's over. If you kill me, you'll never have a chance. You'll lose your land, and your family name will be disgraced. Everything you've fought for-"

"Shut up! You're a part of it, you're all a part of it! You're dead, G-man-" He raises his weapon and I can hear him pull back on the hammer.

I yell, "Stop!"

He turns toward me, takes aim-I fire. He rocks back, the gun drops from his hand. Hotch runs, he picks up the fallen pistol and kneels beside the wounded man.

I'm at his side. "What happened?"

"I stepped out to relieve myself, and I saw him coming up on the tent. He drew his weapon and took me out here. He told me his family's been in a battle for this land for the last hundred years, and that was why he's been killing people involved in the dispute. He heard that Travis Mitchell spoke to the police, that's why he killed him.

"He's a Nam vet suffering from PTSD. I guess everything's been building up for a long time, and when the mortgage came due and he couldn't pay, that triggered the killings."

"Is he..."

Hotch checks his pulse. "He's alive. He'll be all right, if we can get him to a hospital.

Hotch's radio crackles as he sends a signal. This time, he gets a response. He puts it to his mouth. "Hotch here. Yes. We're fine. We're located on the other side of the creek near Mitchell's camp. The unsub took me by surprise. He pulled a weapon, and my partner had to take him down. He's alive, but needs a doctor asap."

I work on staunching the blood flow from the unsub's abdomen and Hotch tells me the sheriff's at the cabin and will be up here in a minute. The dim morning light's warming things up, and I can hear the sheriff's vehicle on the road, coming toward us.

We help him load up the unsub, and he radios for a second vehicle to drive up for Travis Mitchell. The dog's watching everything, and I lean in and ask the sheriff what's going to happen to him. He says Mitchell has a daughter, she'll take care of him-and the sheep.

When the deputies arrive, we show them Mitchell's body and where the shooting took place. We leave them to take care of the crime scene and start walking down the trail back to our SUV. The creek's still high, but we manage to cross on foot. It's damned unpleasant making the rest of that hike in wet shoes.

We drive into town to look for a place to clean up, and, more importantly, to get breakfast. There's a little diner serving strong coffee, pancakes, bacon, biscuits and gravy, anything you want, and we gratefully give our orders to the waitress. I shift in my chair and my bottom hurts. I wince. Hotch looks at me.

I don't believe there's a chance in hell that he's going to acknowledge what we did together last night, but he sounds a bit rueful when he asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

It's what you say to someone like Hotch. What you don't say is, I don't know how I am. Physically, I'm crashing from an adrenaline rush, my entire body aches from sleeping on the cold ground, my eyes are watering from some bizarre plant that grows only in this area of the country and isn't covered by my allergy medicine, and my butt's sore from my first experience with anal sex.

Another thing you don't say is, and furthermore, Hotch, emotionally-speaking, I haven't had a second to process the loss of my virginity with a man, nor the fact that that man was my boss, with whom I've been hopelessly and pathetically in love for quite a while now. I stare at Hotch. I do want to say something, _something, _but before I can formulate a sentence, he speaks.

"What happened last night was... probably not a good idea."

I look down at my coffee cup and shrug. "Why do you say that?"

"I wasn't thinking clearly. It wasn't fair to you, and-I'm afraid it's going to impair our working relationship." He's looking at me, he's not dodging the issue, and I have to tell him the truth. I realize that he probably already knows, but I say it, anyway.

"I have feelings for you, Hotch. Have had, for a long time. But, I can work with you, no matter what. All I want to know is-is there any chance you might... that you feel... something for me?" I meet his gaze. I'm not afraid of his answer, whatever it is. I just want to know.

To my amazement, he smiles. He looks out the window before he turns back and says gently, "Yes. I do. But, I'm an emotional disaster right now, and I don't know how I'm going to get through the next few months. Are you sure that's something you want to be involved with?"

I try not to look like a joyful puppy, but it's a futile effort. "I'm there, Hotch. All the way."

The waitress brings our food, we stop talking and fall upon it like ravenous animals. Once we've convinced our stomachs that starvation is no longer imminent, I look up to see Hotch watching me. He leans forward and says quietly, "Last night was... amazing, Spencer. But, I feel bad that-"

"It was what I wanted." I nod for emphasis, then smile. "But, maybe we can take another shot at it sometime? Somewhere with a soft bed, heat, and a shower? And, next time, maybe we could pick up some sort of personal lubricant, first. I hear that helps."

Hotch chuckles. "Aren't you demanding. All right. Tonight, Spencer. I'll make it up to you tonight. If you're up to it by then." He gives me what is an almost mischievous wink and goes back to his breakfast.

My stomach does flip-flops and I feel like I've come back from the dead.

* * *

It's getting late. We're heading to the airport in Billings to meet the rest of the team and get on the BAU jet back to Quantico. We're enjoying the scenery, and listening to the radio. Whoever programs the music at the only radio station we seem to be able to get in this part of the mountains must have a 70's glam rock fetish because, for the last 30 minutes, we've been treated to David Bowie, Gary Glitter, Roxy Music, and now, good old Marc Bolan and his band, T. Rex. Bolan's telling me to bang a gong, get it on, and, wherever he is, I think he's looking down on me and Hotch approvingly.

Our unsub made it to the ER in time, and we hear he'll be going for an insanity defense. Travis Mitchell's daughter took the dog-his name is Plato, of all things-and is arranging to move the sheep to her own spread a little farther down south. I think they'll all be happy together.

Hotch is more relaxed than I've seen him in a long time. I'm feeling excited and confident about the future for the first time since... well, since the time I flushed the last of my Dilaudid down the toilet. I look over at Hotch and smile. He reaches for my knee and squeezes, then goes back to staring at the road ahead.

As the valley below comes into view, I realize that it doesn't matter what kind of train wreck Hotch's divorce might turn out to be, or that I'm still waking up screaming a couple of times a week, or that we're constantly exposed to death and insanity and horror as we go about doing our jobs. All that matters is that we find strength and pleasure in being together, and, maybe, a little joy.

Because neither one of us is going to walk away, not now, now that we've finally found each other, after all this time.

I know.

Hotch let me drive.


End file.
